


Righteous Monsters

by TwistedOver



Category: Supernatural, The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Crossover, F/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:42:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23437879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwistedOver/pseuds/TwistedOver
Summary: You're not like your brothers. Not so desperate to deny your humanity as Damon, or as tortured as Stefan. You've managed to establish an uneasy peace with your nature by neither denying it nor giving into it.But you've never kidded yourself. You know you're a monster.You're not surprised when hunters come for you. You are taken aback by your lack of good sense when it comes to the green eyed one. He fascinates you. You'd love to know why-if only he'd stop trying to kill you long enough to find out.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s), Dean Winchester/You
Comments: 7
Kudos: 57





	1. Dinner

The heavy click of a cocking gun interrupts your careful work. The food begins bleating at something behind you. Realizing you let dinner distract you from your surroundings, a short breath betrays your irritation. The bleating begins to grate, so you grab its chin, forcing it to look down and into your eyes. Your will pushes outward as you insist, “Quiet.”

The pleas stop.

“Neat trick. But I’m not getting the impression there’s a safe word involved.”

 _Hmph_. The cockiness of the words and man voicing them reminds you too much of your older brother. You glance over your shoulder. Two men inch across the warehouse floor, the large guns in their steady hands raised and pointing your way.

They know enough to approach cautiously but threaten you with a couple of handguns? They don’t seem bothered by the sight of a man chained and hanging from the ceiling, IVs dangling from both arms and filling several bags full of blood. Perhaps they’re used to suppressing their reactions to such a sight. Their clothes, all denim and flannel, tell you they’re not federal agents. Local detectives?

Either way, your meals been interrupted. Turning around, you lay the scalpel on the end of an abandoned conveyer belt where you’ve carefully lined up the rest of your antique surgical kit. A bit of blood drips from the blade to the metal top, marring its recently wiped surface. The sight pulls the corners of your lips down.

You lift your attention from the newly made mess to eye the guns. “Those won’t help you.”

The one approaching from your right answers with an easy, “Wanna bet, sweetheart?”

Oh, yes. Just like Damon.

The crack thunders through the factory’s empty shell, echoing all the way to the exposed steel rafters. The noise sparks your instinct to move, and you manage to do so fast enough that the bullet smashes into your shoulder instead of your chest. At first, it’s just a punch that knocks you aside. Then the nerves seem to catch up and start burning.

Bullets shouldn’t hurt like this.

The pain sizzles into your brain and makes it hard to see or think of anything but your shoulder. Trying to realign, the broken bones grind around the bullet. Gritting your teeth, you flash a far darker, narrow-eyed glare at the man who’d fired the gun and push your fingers into the ragged tear of flesh. A low hiss escapes as your fingertips dig into the meat around your clavicle, nails scraping along its cracked edges. Finally, you feel the smooth curve of something small and round and waste no time yanking it free. Panting as shallowly as you can so they don’t notice, your gaze flickers down to your bloody fingertips, a darkened bullet pinched between your fingers.

Wood.

Your mind whirls as you quickly recalculate the two men staring at you without a hint of alarm. You can hear their calm, steady hearts beating. They’re alive.

With deliberate movements, you lay the bullet onto the belt, ignoring the new drops of blood clinging to the rubber. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Dean.” He’s confident but controlled. Not so much like Damon, then.

“Dean,” you echo, tasting the name. It fills your mouth well. “You know what I am.”

“We know you’re some kind of freak, sure.”

 _Rude_. It’s sad you never learned how to throw knives. A scalpel through the eye would serve him right. Crossing your arms, you fix your driest look—boredom with a hint of cocked eyebrow—at the smarmy one.

The larger of the pair has yet to say anything. His eyes remain alert, brows wrinkled together as he tracks you with his gun. He’s moving left, maybe for your meal. You’d be interested in how he plans to free it. You bent the links around its arms, no key involved.

The meal will bleed to death long before they manage to file or melt through the steel. “Why are you here?”

Dean’s head tilts ever so slightly. “To kill you.” The obviously went unsaid.

“Who sent you?” Thanks to Damon and Stefan you have enemies aplenty. Considering the mess your brothers regularly leave behind them, it could be any number of people.

But Dean continues to do the unexpected. “Nobody sent us. We hunt things like you.”

Hunters. The revelation shouldn’t surprise you as much as it does. They’re not the first you’ve encountered. You were born to this life because of such humans, after all.

It was safe to assume they knew all your weaknesses then. Still. “Brave of you to show yourselves.” Your sights slip towards the long haired one. “I hope your plan isn’t to save this one.” You nod your head backwards ever-so-slightly to indicate the meal behind you. “He isn’t worth your lives.” Or yours.

“Nobody deserves this,” long hair replies.

Interesting. You dare to take your eyes off the trigger-happy Dean to study the other. His jaw is locked, nostrils flared out ever so slightly. “You know his crimes.”

“Alleged,” Dean says, drawing your attention back to him. His assertion lacks any conviction.

“He admits it.” Granted, it took the power of compulsion to pull the confession from it. But it was quite clear about its secret activities. “He took pleasure in it.”

“And you’re so much better?” There's derision in the way he looks down the silver barrel of his gun at you.

Your gaze lowers to the abandoned machine, to the eighteenth-century knives and saws spread across its surface. “There’s more to feed than just the bloodlust.” Your eyes lift. “I satiate it the best way I know how.” It’s better than Damon’s random explosions of violence, or Stefan’s uncontrolled frenzies. You’ve bent your monstrous nature towards a purpose.

You don’t bother warning them to leave. Hunters are a stubborn lot. Instead, you do the next best thing. Deny them a victory.

The meal’s neck wrings as easily as the chickens that used to roam the old estate. The long haired one shouts at you. Dean doesn’t bother with that smart mouth of his, he lets his gun do the talking. You’ve already sped behind the not-yet cooling body still chained up. It barely jerks as it shields you from the bullets.

The larger one has almost rounded the corpse, and he’s not happy. You hear a click and the slide of metal. Dean is reloading. You take the chance to run by him, betting the other won’t risk hitting his partner to shoot you. You breathe in a lungful of aftershave, liquor, gunpowder, and human male as you pass. The underlying scent, the one that’s his and his alone, imprints itself in your mind even after a cool blast of midafternoon air blows your hair back as you shove open the door and rush out.

You don’t bother running down the metal staircase that leads up into what had been a machinist factory. You vault over the railing, dropping the dozen or so feet to the ground before it’s done creaking. Pops like firecrackers sound off from the windows. The ground beneath your Jimmy Choos cracks and sprays broken bits of concrete at you. Another pop goes off and a punch to your back steals your breath.

Grimacing, you speed away, past a black Impala, back to your Porsche.

You fling open the door and wince at the series of pings that pit the metal. Lunging into the driver’s seat, you grind your teeth at the pain flaring in your back. You reach for the ignition before remembering you left the keys back with the surgeon’s bag. “Dammit!”

More gunshots as the door to the factory flies open and crashes against the brick wall. Dean sprints like a professional athlete. Ripping open the steering column, you grab a handful of wires and quickly suss out the ignition and battery. They snap apart as you pull, and then spark as you tap their ends together.

The engine roars to life as Dean lifts his gun and points it at your head. You shove into reverse and slam your foot onto the gas as a bullet smashes into the windshield. The glass manages to stop it, but not without scarring. A web of cracks spreads out where your head is.

It won’t stop another shot.

The tires squeal before catching. The smell of burning rubber stings your nostrils as you whip the wheel around almost too fast to catch. You back out of the drive so fast the rear axle slams into the road with an explosion of sparks as you careen into the street. Bouncing in your seat, you duck as another bullet flies into the passenger window. You hold the wheel to the side until you’ve spun all the way into the road, and then jerk it back round.

You risk a look into the rear-view mirror and find Dean out on the road, still running as if he might catch you, gun up and aimed at your car. You duck in time to avoid another round of bullets, then jolt as one hits a wheel, popping the tire. The rim gives a rough ride as you force the car to turn onto a busier street.

You don’t need to go far. You hate to lose your Porsche, but as the car shakes and the rim grinds along the street, you know you can’t stop to change a flat. And you have a feeling that Impala will come roaring around that corner any moment.

Besides, you can run faster than you drive. For a little while, at least.

You pull into the first side street you spy and throw the gear into park. With a final silent farewell to the once unmarred red beauty, you launch yourself out of the driver’s seat and into the open. Ignoring the sudden glances from onlookers, you keep to a human run until you pass behind a building—a laundromat—and then go as fast as you can.

You don’t stop until your over the threshold of the house you’ve ‘borrowed’, panting and eyes half-shut in pain from the inferno in your back.

Dean’s face and scent run through your mind as Alissa, your human friend, digs the bullet out of your back.


	2. Lies

A casserole dish warms your hands as you walk up the driveway of an unassuming two-story house. Tucked away in a neighborhood of similar mid-century houses, no signs advertise the fact its anything other than another residence. The lawn is mowed, it’s line of hedges trimmed, and the white siding is clean. You’ve changed into lower key dark jeans and red blouse for your visit. Your shoes hint of your designer tastes, but considering some of the pairs in your closet, they’re among the plainest you own.

Climbing a set of wooden steps to an enclosed porch, you balance the dish against your hip and pull the screen door open. A quiet buzzer goes off inside the building, a noise that would be inaudible to any human ear at this distance. You have an invitation to enter the building, but you wait at the threshold, pressing the doorbell to keep up the ruse.

Footsteps soon approach the door and you smile at the peephole. Various chains and deadbolts turn before the front door swings inward.

The freckled redhead on the other side has a warm smile as she greets you by name.

“Hello Michelle.” You hold up the dish. “How do you feel about lasagna?”

Her eyes light up with interest. “Love it.”

“Good.” She moves aside, pulling the door open with her, and you step past the threshold.

The inside is like any other middle-class home. From the entryway there’s a staircase that leads up to a second floor. To the side is a hall that leads to an office, a laundry room, and a door to the basement. To the left a sitting room dominated by a sofa, several armchairs, and a wide screen television. Beyond the open archway to the right stands a long oak dining table with seating for ten. Past that lies the kitchen.

“You’ve saved us from another dinner of hotdogs and canned spaghetti.” Michelle leads the way through the dining room to the kitchen. Overhead, small feet clamber towards the staircase.

The dryness of her voice elicits a chuckle. “It’s no trouble. You and Debbie have enough on your plate without worrying about cooking.”

“That’s true, but it’s still awfully heroic of you,” Michelle says as you set the dish on the counter.

“Hardly. I’ve made it so many times, I could whip one up in my sleep.” Your smile is genuine as you add, “You two are the heroes.” With that said, you unclip your purse and pull out the check you’d written before leaving the apartment.

Michelle accepts the check, smile widening as she glances at the amount. “Thank you so much.”

“I know you’ll put it to good use.” You nod to the lasagna. “You can microwave it, but it’s best reheated in the oven.”

“I’ll do that then.” Michelle pockets the check before picking up the dish.

As she carries it to the fridge, a stampede draws your attention to the open doorway.

Two little girls run into the backs of a pair of high-backed dining chairs. Cassie, a blonde with bright blue eyes and an impish smile, stands a full hand taller than the other girl, Myra. Aside from the brown hair fixed into a simple ponytail and stained shirt, a cast encloses Myra’s arm. It’s obvious another child, likely the one standing beside her, has been drawing and coloring on the hardened shell. Your own signature takes up a small space besides what, you were gravely informed, was supposed to be a pink unicorn. On her back are the straps of an adorable purple backpack sporting a cartoon pony.

“Hi,” you say, giving a little wave as the two watch you, expressive faces bashful as they fidget behind the chairs.

Cassie, the more outgoing of the two, waves back.

“Nice backpack, Myra.”

Her smile is shy but genuine.

Cassie grabs a strand of her bangs and twists it between her fingers. “It’s got her clothes and toothbrush and stuff.”

“Are you going camping outside?” It’s a nice day out, and the staff keep a small pup tent erected for the children during the warmer months.

But Myra shakes her head. “We’re leaving.”

You aren’t entirely surprised by this revelation. “Oh. Where are you going?”

“Home,” she says. Cassie frowns.

Michelle shuts the refrigerator and joins you at the counter. Curiosity satisfied, the girls hurry past. Michelle watches them run out the backdoor and turns back to you. “David Reese disappeared.”

“Really?”

She motions towards the front door. “We’ve had the cops trooping in and out to interview Charlotte since Tuesday.” She frowns. “A pair of federal agents even came to the house this morning.”

“What, like F.B.I.?” That's news.

Michelle leans back against the countertop and nods. “The police officer said it looked like he took off on his own, but the two agents seemed to think it’s connected to some kind of case they’re working.”

Your throat tightens as your brows fall. Local police are easily dealt with. Federal Agents, on the other hand, have copies of their reports sent off to Washington. You can’t compel a computer several states away.

“Mind if I say goodbye to her?”

Straightening up, Michelle shrugs. “Go ahead. She’s up in her room packing.”

You thank her before heading back to the entryway and the staircase. A few issue gentle creaks as you climb their carpeted steps. A hallway of several doors greets you at the top. You head to the third one of the left and knock.

You hear a shuffle and clink of glass before something is zipped up. “Come in.”

Pushing the door open, you catch Charlotte in the act of straightening away from a large black suitcase sitting atop a narrow twin bed.

Charlotte is a thin woman with hair the same shade of brown as her daughter and pretty dark eyes shadowed by deep bags. The first time you’d met her, you’d thought she was ten years older than her actual twenty-eight. She had worry lines carved deep in her forehead and frown lines lining her narrow mouth. Her hair is haphazardly piled atop her head in a loose bun, lightly curled strands springing free to give it an especially messy look. Even after you took her shopping, her clothes consist of sweatpants and baggy hoodies whose sleeves nearly reach her fingertips.

“I got your text,” you say by way of greeting.

Her smile is a wry thing. Everything about her is, as if she armors herself against the world in cynicism. She leans back against the bedpost, bony shoulders forming prominent points beneath the thick fabric of her hooded sweatshirt. “Thanks for coming by.” Her voice is lovely, something she once put to use as the lead singer of a local band before marrying.

“Michelle mentioned David is missing.”

Charlotte tucks several wayward curls behind her ear. The rest of the errant strands catch the sunlight from the window and form a soft cloud of gold around her. “Yeah. I was just packing up to go home.” She takes a deep breath and forces another strained smile. “But I wanted to say thanks, first.”

You ignore the thanks in favor of playing the role of concerned friend. “You’re sure that’s a good idea? What if he comes back?”

“I hope he does. Taking off like this isn’t like him. He must be worried about Myra.”

“He should have worried about her before you took her,” you point out quietly.

She nods her head, but her eyes continue to meet yours. “I know. But Myra wants to go home. I do too. We should be there when he gets back.”

If you didn’t know better, you’d compel her to stay. But there’s no point.

David won't be coming home ever again.

“If you’re sure it’s what you want.”

“I’m sure. But I was going to check out the house first. I thought… maybe you’d come with me. In case.” Your brow twitches. She gives another of her thin, wry smiles. “I’m not entirely stupid.”

“Alright.”

“Thank you. Really.”

“It’s no trouble, Charlotte.” You walk over and pick up the suitcase, careful to make it look as if it were weighing down your right side. “Let me get this.”

She doesn’t protest. Her ribs must still give her trouble. You lead the way out of her room and down the stairs. As soon as you both reach the landing, Charlotte makes for Michelle’s office. While waiting, you straighten from the slight tilt you’d had and pick up their conversation. Charlotte mentions the fact you’ll be going with her to check out the house. Michelle agrees once told you’d be going with. When the footsteps move back towards the hallway you lean slightly off to the side again.

“Michelle knows,” Charlotte informs you as she leads you to the front door.

The day is still warm when you both emerge into the Chicago afternoon. The girls’ voices drift from the backyard, light and carefree in the way only children seem to manage. “Let’s take my car.” Charlotte fumbles in her pocket for a set of keys. “Been forever since I’ve been allowed to drive it.”

“Alright.”

You turn towards the garage once you hit the driveway and follow her around to the side door. Leading you in, Charlotte walks round to the back of a six-year-old Honda Accord. You follow as she picks a key out with a musical clink and unlocks the trunk. It lifts with a long, low creak. She sidesteps around you as you step up. You’re careful to act as if lifting the suitcase is a struggle.

You lean forward to lay it inside. A pinch in the back of your neck startles you.

And then the world is on fire before darkness takes you.

* * *

You notice the burn right away.

It’s as if flames encircle your middle, arms, and legs. Low, slow burning flames taking their sweet time as they eat into the flesh beneath your clothes. A slight hint of charred flesh and roses wafts from your blouse and warns you of the presence of vervain. You’re pinned to a chair, arms bent and secured behind you. Someone’s soaked a coil of rope in a mixture of vervain water and tied you down.

After the pain comes the smell. The acidic burn of cleaner even a human would notice. Beneath it lies heavier layers of a multitude of odors that, if humans had better noses, would have them running from hotels and motels. There’s a reason vampires compel humans into sharing their private homes rather than rent out rooms. Even the best hotels are a cesspool of bodily fluids.

And by the smell of this place, it’s far from a five-star establishment.

You can’t help wrinkling your nose as you switch to breathing through your mouth. It doesn’t help.

“She’s awake.”

It’s been over a year, but you remember that voice. Hard to forget a man who shot you twice. It’s a deep voice, rough in a way that harkens to early mornings after late nights.

And it’s near you. Opening your eyes, you discover a set of lovely green staring back at you. This close, you note their unusual shade. Verdant as springtime growth, but with hints of darker shades of sage, all interspersed with tiny speckles of gold.

Dean Winchester. You're pleased to note he still looks as delicious as he smells.

Intent on Dean, it takes a moment before you spot the room’s other two occupants. The large hunter you remember from the factory was there, but the woman with them surprises you.

Charlotte’s watching you, arms folded and hands gripping her biceps defensively. The weight of your stare pushes hers to the floor. You’d feel bad for intimidating a victim of domestic violence, except she did pump you full of vervain. “Why are you helping them, Charlotte?” You do your best to sound small and helpless. It’s disquieting how easily the role of victim rises from some long buried memory best left to your human past.

Of course, you feel as if you’re on fire. That helps.

Dean’s lovely eyes narrow. “Don’t believe anything she says.”

Charlotte looks to him before her arms fall, hands balling into fists. “Where’s David?”

You’d been trying to summon tears without much success. You’ve never been one to cry, not even as a human. Tears had only ever made things worse, and you learned not to shed any at too early an age to change now. Her words put a stop to that. Your expression smooths as a quiet rage builds under your burning skin. Something of it must shine in your eyes, because she steps back at a look, despite the fact you’re the one tied up in vervain-soaked ropes.

“See,” Dean sits on the bed beside your chair, legs spreading to take up a quarter of the mattress. “We’ve got your M.O. pretty well figured out by now.”

“Men, mid-twenties to late fifties. A new one missing every few weeks. All with a history of domestic violence or rape,” the taller of the two recites.

“I imagine there are quite a few we’re missing. Ones that don’t have a history because they’ve never been reported,” Dean continues.

“The victims of the few we have managed to find are all members of groups for survivors.” He folds his arms. “Each one gaining a mysterious new—”

“And loaded,” Dean interjects.

The big one glances over before continuing, “—donor that’s allowed to listen in.”

Dean leans back. “That’s how you find ‘em.”

You stare.

“It’s not like I don’t get it,” he goes on, apparently switching to good cop. “I mean, I’d like to string up these sons of bitches myself. But there’s a system for these sorts of bastards.”

You can’t suppress a smile that curls the ends of your lips like dying leaves. “Is there?”

“This isn’t better.” The larger hunter interjects. “The courts aren’t perfect, but the law isn’t what it was in the eighteen hundreds.”

While the fact he knows how old you are is disturbing, you can’t help but roll your eyes at his words. Its true things were much better now than decades past. But saying the courts were less than perfect was an understatement. You express as much with an arched eyebrow.

“Point is, you can’t just chain people up and bleed ‘em dry,” Dean insists.

Your smile curls higher. “But I can.”

“Where’s David Reese?” Dean’s good cop routine was gone as his voice firms, acquiring a dangerous, threatening edge.

Buried out past highway ninety. Instead of saying so, you lean back in the seat, not allowing the deepening burn from the rope as it digs into your wrist to show in your expression as you shrug.

“You’ve got no right,” Charlotte insists, eyes brightening in anger. “Myra needs her father.”

The sneer appears before you could hope to school your expression. You let it settle across your lips as you reply, “Her father put her in a cast.”

You're annoyed when she looks offended. Like you have no right to point out her husband’s wrongs.

“Those are some rosy cheeks,” Dean says, distracting you from Charlotte. His eyes are appraising as he adds, “Your all hopped up on David juice.”

Your nose wrinkles. “David juice?” Really?

He flashes an insincere smile, a thin stretch of lips. Leaning to the side, he reaches back to his waistband. The handgun slides from a holster with a whisper of metal gliding against leather. He brings the barrel around to hover inches above your heart. “Guess we don’t need you.”

That dead heart speeds up. “Wait. Wait!” A relieved breath escapes as Dean pauses to cock his head at you. Swallowing, you ask, “How do I know you won’t kill me as soon as I tell you?”

“You don’t.”

“Dean.” The exasperation in the larger one’s voice suggests a long history of profound suffering when it comes to his partner.

“I’ll tell you where if you let me go.”

“So you can go on killing?” Dean scoffs.

“A monster taking out other monsters.” Your eyes dart again to the gun.

“A monster killing humans.” Dean argues.

“You say that like monsters can’t be humans.”

“Well isn’t that just profound.”

“This isn’t helping,” the other hunter interjects.

You focus on those verdant green eyes. “Either let me go, or never see Reese alive again.”

Even though she’d been trying to escape him not twenty-four hours before, reality is apparently more than Charlotte can handle. “No!”

Dean and the bigger man share a glance. Dean’s brows lower while the larger’s lift, gaze imploring. When Dean turns back to you, he’s flashing a smile that fails to reach his eyes. “Deal,” he lies.

You force your body to relax as if relieved, even as your borrowed blood turns cold. Dean stands as the larger hunter turns to the table behind him. While his broad flannel-clad back obstructs most of your view, you can smell a familiar floral scent.

You can’t help but try to lean away as he turns back around with a needle in hand. “No!” you protest, as he pushes it into your neck and presses the plunger.

You must not be the first vampire they’ve vervained. They know how to dilute it enough to keep you conscious despite the acid pumping through your veins. Groaning, your chin falls to your chest. The strength is stolen from your muscles. Pain overwhelms your nerves as every inch of you burns.

“Stay here,” Dean instructs Charlotte. She starts to protest, but he overrides her with, “She hasn’t always travelled alone.”

Thankfully, you haven’t spent time with either Damon or Stefan in years. If things end badly, you hope they don’t come looking for vengeance. These two are no ordinary hunters. They’re good. Scary good.

The big one cuts the ropes securing you to the chair, but not the ones keeping your arms tied behind you. Not that it matters. The fire is burning inside you now, eating your innards.

Both of the men take an arm to hold you up and guide you to the door. Your feet drag uselessly across the cheap carpeting. Your head hangs limp. You can barely muster enough will to twitch a finger. There’s no way you can fight off their hold.

As the door opens, the cool night air greets you. “Before we’re done,” Dean starts as your toes scrape along the concrete, no doubt ruining your shoes, “you’re going to tell us how you walk in the sun.”

You can’t manage to do more than groan.

They drag you to the Impala you remember from your last encounter, the bigger of the two relieving Dean of your weight before setting you in the backseat. You slide down the leather to lay on your side, a view of the back of the front seat filling your vision as the door slams shut. You smell human men, sun-aged leather, gunpowder, and the greasy remnants of fast food.

The front doors open nearly simultaneously, and the car dips as the two men climb inside. After the doors shut, there’s a brief metallic clink of keys being sorted before the engine comes roaring to life. It settles into a purr that vibrates the cushions beneath you before a gear is shifted and you rock ever so gently as the car rolls back, stops, and then speeds forward.

“You realize she’s probably lying,” Dean says to the other before pulling into traffic.

“Yeah, Dean. I got that.”

There’s the heavy rustle of denim before Dean says, “Just saying man. Should’ve ganked her back in the room.”

“Long as there’s a chance we have to try.” The other sighs before adding, “And there might be more.”

“Great. So,” Dean says, speaking louder, “where to?”

You debate whether to speak up when the front seat creaks and a sprig of vervain appears in your field of vision. Licking your lips, you manage to groan, “High—way.”

“East or west?”

“West.”

And so it goes. Dean asking where, your answers groaned out in monosyllables. You wish inspiration would strike, but the vervain burning your insides makes it impossible to think of anything but the pain. You guide them where they want to go. The one point in your favor is how long it takes to arrive.

You don’t bury your kills close to home.

A grim atmosphere settles within the Impala as you direct it to the side of the road. In the midst of a local state park, the trees grow thick and plentiful here. You grew up amid Virginia’s lush woodlands, your family fortune made from felling the ancient maples and poplars, turning them into wood fit for burning or building. You played beneath their giant canopies as a child, and even a century and a half later, you still find yourself most at home beneath their secret yet welcoming branches.

You’ve either adjusted to the vervain’s burn or enough has worked itself through your system that you’re able to sit up. Your nocturnal sight is clear enough to make out the green of Dean’s eyes as their reflection meets yours. “You expect us to believe you’ve left this douchebag alive?”

You know you shouldn’t, but you can’t hold back a thin, gloating smile.

He reaches down. You’re not surprised when his gun appears. “Let’s waste this bitch, Sam.”

“Who knows how many bodies she’s buried out here,” Sam argues, quiet and thoughtful. “All of them victims of violent deaths.”

Dean appears to consider Sam’s words, the desire to put a bullet in you warring with the other’s good sense. Finally, he swears before shoving the gun back into its holster. “You get the damn shovels.” Fury makes his eyes bright and shiny. “You want to make these last moments pleasant, you show us the graves. Otherwise, we’re gonna see how well _you_ do when tied up and worked over.”

“Kinky,” you mutter as he shoves the door open.

“Oh, sweetheart. It ain’t gonna be pleasant,” Dean promises, voice darker, rougher, and—to your vampiric hearing—all the sexier for it.

As if proving a point, he’s rough as he hauls you out of the backseat. It doesn’t end there. As you leave the hard-packed dirt of the roadside, he shoves you forward so that you trip and fall to the grass, staining the knees of your jeans. You bite back a less-than-ladylike word as you struggle back to your feet.

“Lead on,” he gruffs as the trunk bangs shut behind you. Glancing over your shoulder you see the bigger one, Sam, with a pair of shovels slung over a shoulder and a duffle bag in one hand. Your attention turns forward as Dean gives you a hard shove from behind. “Better get that ass moving, princess, before I decide to pull out the vervain.”

You bite back a retort and stumble forward.

Two beams of light pierce the darkness, illuminating the broad trunks of the trees. You might be dressed for the city, but you navigate the forest with ease. You’re not the only one. Both of the men following you avoid the pitfalls of exposed roots, sinkholes, fallen logs, and rocks with the steps nimbler than you’d expect of a pair their size.

At first you rely on memory. The deeper into the woods you lead them, the sharper a tell-tale aroma of noxious gasses becomes. When you’re within a hundred feet, you can hear the bugs beneath the earth, thousands of pinching mandibles clicking together as they feed. The worms and larva sliding through rotting tissue as they move deeper into the fleshier corpses.

Finally, you lead them to the freshest of several large mounds of dark earth. You nod. “David Reese.”

The flashlight sweeps the ground, pausing on each of the uncovered hills. “How many?” Sam asks quietly.

“One every few weeks. I’ve been here six months.” You manage not to flinch as their flashlights land on your face. “You do the math.”

You can’t see their expressions through the bright lights. You hear that same metallic slide of a gun being drawn, the one Dean seem so fond of flaunting. “We don’t need her.”

“She can identify them,” Sam says, voice flat.

“Dammit, Sam.” The flashlight flicks to the side. “Over there,” Dean commands, beam lighting up an ancient oak whose trunk, at some point, split into two.

You pick your way to the tree, unsurprised when the pair come up with more rope from the duffle bag. A waterbottle with a squeeze top comes out next, and you watch as Dean sprays the length of rope with it. Hands dripping, he marches over to you. His eyes are hard as glass as he nods to the trunk. “Lean up.”

Your heart begins to speed up at the herbal scent wafting off the rope. “Decided to try your hand at torture after all?”

He glares. “Just do it.”

Reluctant, you let yourself fall against the wood. The rough bark digs into your back.

Dean keeps his hard eyes on you as he uncoils the rope. “Help me out,” he says, but not to you.

Sam drops the shovels and the bag and joins Dean. He tosses an end of the rope to Sam, who catches it with ease. Dean then strides forward and around.

You can’t hold back a hiss as the rope sizzles against your skin. Neither of the men look too sympathetic as they continue securing you to the tree. Finally, you feel Dean’s presence stopping behind you. The rope shifts as he tugs on it, likely to tie it in a knot. “You give us names, and we won’t have to play any drinking games.”

Sam lifts the fallen water bottle and shakes it side to side. Water splashes menacingly inside.

Teeth grit to keep from screaming, you manage a tight, “Fine.”

The rest of the evening is spent watching the two men dig.

After the first twenty minutes, their topmost layer of denim is shed. By the time they closed in on David Reese, their flannel button downs joined their jean jackets on the ground. You watch, curious, as the two climb out of the hole and pull a bottle of lighter fluid and a canister of salt from the bag, dousing what was left of Reese in both before setting his body ablaze.

They wander over to the next mound of dirt. At Dean’s expectant, dirt-smeared look, you stop working on the coils of rope to say, “Alex Carlson.”

The two men share a look before the shovels are stabbed into the earth and stomped on.

And so the night passes. You wait for the two to remember the fact the vervain will weaken the longer your kidneys have to filter it out. But, intent on their grisly work, they never do. In the meantime, keeping a sharp eye on the pair, you work on the coils. Your hands are slick with blood by the time they reach the fourth grave of Eric Wagner, but you only minimize your squirming when they climb back out of their holes.

Their attention is mostly fixed on digging. And talking to one another. At first they’re quiet, but mid-way through the second grave their silence breaks. They don’t talk about you, or what they’re doing. They mostly bicker at each other about the inanest things.

And they switch off every so often to take a break. At one point, as the sun rises and the woods glow with an ethereal green and golden light, Dean sits down beside you to chug down some vervain-free water. “So why aren’t you going up in flames?” he asks, rather personably, between drinks.

“Magic.”

He gives you a look.

“If I tell you, you’ll let me burn.” Your let your head fall back against the tree. “I’d rather take a bullet through the heart.”

One knee up with his forearm propped against it, Dean thinks for a few minutes. “Keep cooperating, and I’ll make sure it’s the bullet.”

You scoff. “You expect me to believe that?”

Dean shrugs. In just a t-shirt, his sweat-soaked arms glimmer in the forest’s soft morning light. “We like our kills clean.”

How quaint. Still. They have kept their word so far. “My necklace.” It must be fear that causes your heart to speed up as Dean stands and moves in front of you, close enough that you could count the freckles across his cheeks and nose if you wanted to. His eyes are fixed on the one accessory you never take off hanging above your breasts. “It’s enchanted.”

“What’s the spell?” he asks, reaching out and scooping the lapis lazuli up in his large, calloused hand. You’re impressed that, despite the fact they’ve been shoveling for hours, there isn’t a hint of a blister. A rare trait to find in today’s man.

“You’d have to ask the witch that cast it. And she’s long dead.”

Dean looks down at you through unfairly long lashes. He studies your face for several long moments before letting the necklace and his sights fall away. “Probably for the best,” he says, reaching over to pick up the shovel he’d jabbed into the dirt beside you. “I hate dealing with witches.”

You smirk. “Who doesn’t?”

An amused huff escapes before he adjusts his hold on the shovel. He glances your way again, eyes roaming your face. You keep your bloody hands still as he memorizes your features.

He blinks before turning and walking away.

Heart still hammering, you let loose the breath you’d been holding. Your nerves are still alight though, and not from the vervain. That’s almost entirely gone. Pushing down your reaction to the hunter’s close proximity, you redouble your efforts to free your hands.

An hour and another grave later you’ve managed to free them. You’ve almost worked your way through the coil around your chest by the time Sam comes over to rest.

It snaps as he’s taking a drink. You still, waiting to see if he’d heard the rope break. He continues gulping down water and wiping off his mouth.

Senses heightened to a painful degree, you watch the sweat run down his face, listen to the steady thump of his heart, to Dean’s, and the myriad of animals stirring with the morning light. You take a breath. Both men face away from you. You tug with all your strength.

The rope falls free.

A deliberate, quiet step takes you over the coils. You grab the handle of Sam’s abandoned shovel.

The flat of the blade rings out as it meets his skull. Its so sudden, he doesn’t even have time to make a noise before he drops to the ground.

Sam’s heart is beating, but Dean doesn’t know that as he whips around, eyes huge and round with alarm.

You don’t bother waiting for him to leap out of the latest grave. You drop the shovel and run. There’s too much vervain left in your bloodstream to run at superhuman speeds, but you’re still fast.

So’s Dean. He runs like a damn mountain lion. You’d have thought he’d be the sort to shout, but then you remember the last time he chased you he was as quiet. No wasted breath.

The only noise he makes are the gun shots that zip past and crack into the tree trunks as you zig and zag.

The two of you bound between the trees, leap over fallen logs and upturned roots. You rush past long branches that whip into your skin and slice it open. You can smell blood behind you and your mouth waters. You could stop and turn and feed.

But you can’t be sure he wouldn’t overpower you. And he’s got that gun.

You aren’t able to lose him by the time you break through the tree line back to the highway.

Right where the black Impala sits, parked and waiting.

“Hey! HEY!” Dean shouts, panic heightening his voice. “Don’t you touch her!”

The gunshots stop. You don’t waste time. The driver’s door opens with a creak.

“Get away from her!”

Dean barrels up the hill, eyes wide enough that you’re surprised those pretty green orbs don’t pop right out of their sockets. The plastic covering that makes up the steering column cracks and falls off with a little superhuman strength. Thankfully, classic cars are easy to hotwire. Dean shouts as the engine rumbles to life. Ignoring him, you grip the top of the steering wheel and press the gas to the floor.

The Impala leaps forward with a roar that nearly drowns out the incoherent scream from Dean as he reaches the patch of road you’ve just left behind.

* * *

The motel smells familiar as you roll into the parking lot. Not sure which room they’d dragged you from, you take an empty space in the middle before exiting the car.

Closing your eyes, you concentrate on the smell. Its most powerful from the car, but a hint of Dean lingers off to the side. You trace the scent down the sidewalk, ruined shoes tapping smartly with every step.

You know when you’ve found the room. You smell more than Dean. Sam. Vervain.

Charlotte.

You lift your hand, curled into a fist, and knock. As footsteps and a heartbeat draw closer to the door, you move off to the side, away from the peephole. A chain rattles on the other side and the door cracks open. “Sam? Dean?”

A fraction of your strength is all it takes to push the door all the way open. It’s a moment before Charlotte’s brain catches up with the sight of you. You take no small amount of pleasure from her frightened gasp as she scrambles back from the door. She holds a hand out before her, as if to push you away, as she almost trips back into the bed. “What? Where’s—”

You speed in front of her before she finishes the question. She barely has time to draw another breath, probably to scream, before you press your will upon her. “Don’t scream.”

Her mouth is open, but nothing but small panicked pants of breath come out.

“David is dead, Charlotte.”

Her skin pales as if she’s being drained. Wide eyes flood with tears that spill over her lashes and run down her hollow cheeks. Her breaths become faster, shallower. She’s shaking her head.

“Stop,” you order. The shaking ceases. “You aren’t upset. It’s sad, of course, for Myra’s sake that her father wasn’t the kind of man he should have been. But you know it’s better this way.”

“It’s better this way,” Charlotte parrots softly.

“If anyone asks, if Myra asks, David left. You have no idea where he is, but you know he isn’t coming back. You’ve nothing to fear from him, ever again.”

She stares as if in a trance. “Never again.”

“There’s no such thing as vampires. I was a stranger who helped you out of a tight spot. Probably so I could brag about my good works. I’m not worth thinking about, really.”

“Not worth thinking about.”

“But before you put me out of your mind, I need you to do me a favor.”

Sam and Dean know your habits, but you’ve fed this way for too long to change now.

A change in hunting grounds is in order. Somewhere a pair of hunters can't follow.

You tell Charlotte to drive to the airport before heading home.


	3. Home

Like most seaside harbors, Genoa is awash in people moving in and out of the city. Pegli, a residential neighborhood, has always attracted tourists. When you were still young for a vampire, you had been awed by the men and women in the highest of fashions who walked the curving streets. Now just as then, white-capped waves rush up Pegli’s rocky shore and gray beaches. Colorful buildings of butter yellow, peach, sun-kissed red, and mint rise four stories high. Narrow balconies watch over the sea, where ships with great hulls carrying both people and goods have always docked.

While the fashions and the ships have changed, the tide of people have not. Holiday seekers still wander the streets, reveling in the warm afternoon sunshine beneath the nosy gaze of Pegli’s seaside balconies. At night they stroll Via Aurelia, seeking the bars and restaurants lining the coast. It remains a vampire’s paradise.

Seated on a shaded patio off one of the area’s many excellent restaurants, you enjoy the brine-scented breeze stirring up the waves across the street. Every other moment they crash against the rocky shoreline. A glass that could be mistaken for wine sits at hand beside a five-star chef’s risotto sprinkled with truffles. Conversations in Italian surround you alongside the light clinks of silverware tapping against porcelain. You stare at the white-capped waves of the sea lying beyond. The color is lovely beneath the first faint flush of pink in the sky as the sun wanders ever closer to a glittering horizon.

Your thoughts are quiet but for an ever-present loneliness. In decades past, you met all sorts of people while enjoying the different countries of Europe, and Italy in particular. This time, however, you’ve been careful to keep to yourself, leaving no trace of your passage. You doubt a pair of hunters in old jeans and worn equipment have the means to leave the States—but they aren’t the only hunters in the world.

The ring of your phone is a welcome respite, as is the name that comes across the screen. “Stefan. _Pronto_.”

“Hello, Sissy. It’s not a bad time, is it?”

“No, not at all.” You turn your arm, glancing at the Cartier watch adorning your wrist. Almost seven, which means it must be an hour past midnight in the States. “Bit late for you, though, isn’t it?”

“Let’s just say I won’t be sleeping anytime soon,” he replies.

Brows falling together, you straighten up in your seat. “What’s wrong?”

The sigh that answers holds a century and a half’s worth of suffering. “It’s Damon.”

The momentary tension eases from your muscles. “What’s he done this time?”

“Killed some out-of-towners. Threatened me.”

“The usual, then.” Honestly. Damon may have been the oldest of the three of you, but the hundred-and-seventy-eight-year-old vampire is like a puppy at times. Fail to pay him enough attention and he’ll make a mess. Unfortunately for your little brother, he’s been Damon’s favorite target for over a century.

The two were always close. Even now that they hate each other, that hasn’t changed.

You pinch the stem of your wineglass between your fingers and lift. “He’ll get bored eventually, Stefan,” you tell him before taking a sip.

“I’m not so sure,” is Stefan’s careful reply. He’s quiet for a moment, weighing his words. “There’s a girl. She’s… it’s hard to explain.”

You frown at the phone. “Try.”

“You’d have to see it to believe it. But she has Damon’s attention. He’s threatened her already.” A dark anger edges Stefan’s voice as he adds, “I won’t let him hurt her.”

Surprise lifts you back up until you’re sitting tall and straight once more. “You’re not—”

“No.” A pause lets you exhale a relieved breath. “That’s… why I called.”

Ah. Your gaze wanders back to the sea. The sun slips ever lower, turning the rippling waters to liquid gold. “I didn’t leave to go on vacation, Stefan.”

“I know. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.” Stefan senses the hesitation in your silence. “But it’s been two years.” As if anticipating your doubts, he hurries to add, “You don’t have to stay long. Just—long enough.”

Long enough. Was two years long enough? The lives of hunters are short. Even if they’re alive, they must have moved on.

And your baby brother is asking for help.

Tilting back the glass, you drain the rest of your blood in one long drink. You set it down as you tell him, “Alright. I’ll come.”

“Thank you.” Relief makes his voice hum.

You cradle the phone between your shoulder and ear, using your hands to pull money out of your purse for the meal and the tip. “Where are you?” you ask as you set the empty glass down over the Euros.

Another pause is filled with the lulling rush of the waves. Eventually, he says, “Home.”

* * *

Home.

Parked in the driveway of the late Victorian manor, you stare at several pine boards covering the window of Stefan’s room. A little lagged from a late flight, and a lot hungry, you press your lips into a thin line before stepping out of the GranTurismo Maserati you pulled out of storage. Leaning over the side, you pick your suitcase off the backseat and head up the rest of the long drive. The closer you come to the old carriage house that had been renovated into a garage in the late twenties, the more you notice the large dents in the middle of its metal door.

You’re frowning by the time you reach the boarding house’s front door.

Pulling on the front bell, you wait for someone to answer the ring. Thankfully, you don’t have to wait long. Less than three minutes pass by the time Zach, one of your few remaining descendants, appears in the slender opening.

A flash of alarm widens his eyes before its schooled behind a closed expression. However, he can’t hide the sudden spike in his pulse. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Sliding your designer sunglasses from your nose up to the crown of your head, you fix Zach with an unimpressed look. “Hello to you too, Zachariah.” You give him your most polite smile. “I’m doing wonderfully, thank you for asking. And how are you?”

He has the grace to look abashed. “I’m fine.”

“Good.” You tilt your head, spilling your hair further over your shoulder. “May I come in?”

Zach’s lips thin. “You already have an invitation.”

“I know.” Your brow quirks upwards. “So? May I?”

Distrust is in the slight downward curve of his lips and the time it takes him to step back.

“Thank you, Zach.” You step beyond the threshold and back into the past.

Stefan designed the house shortly after completing his degree in architecture. Even before it had been wholly finished, you spent several months filling the inside with the very height of interior fashion in nineteen-fifteen. Dark wood paneling dominates the walls, hand-carved chairs and tables laden with lamps and vases line the hallway. Various artworks gathered over the years, from prints to paintings, hang in the center of each decorative panel.

Apart from the occasional update to the plumbing or the electrical wiring, very little has changed in the years since. Every time you visit you think it’s time to remodel the house—but never end up staying long enough to see the project through.

And there's something comforting in the fact it remains relatively unchanged in a constantly changing world.

“I’ll take your bag,” Zach offers as he shuts the door. To his credit he manages to sound only a little begrudging.

Finally, a bit of the good manners you’re sure his mother taught him. “Thank you.” You set your bag down.

Zach picks it up. “Make yourself at home.”

You smile as he passes and moves further down the hallway, towards the staircase and the second floor.

You wander along the corridor, appraising the paintings you pass on your way to the parlor. You pause at one of your favorites, an impressionist’s scene of the Champs-Élysées you picked up in the late eighteen hundreds during your first visit to Paris. After examining the vibrancy of the pigments, you swipe the frame with a finger. No dust.

Rubbing your fingers together, you continue to the double doors closing off the parlor from the hall. They open without a hint of a creak from well-oiled hinges.

Your gaze sweeps across the room. You survey everything—the Persian rug, the silk upholstered sofas and armchairs, the walnut tables and cabinets, the tall windows where the light streams through clear and bright, and end on the central fireplace. You’re pleased at the condition and cleanliness within as you step down the step and onto the rug spanning the breadth of the room.

Behind you, footsteps tap against the floor. “You’ve done a wonderful job caring for the house.”

“Wish I could take the credit.”

Warmth blossoms in your chest and brings a smile to your face. You hurry and spin around.

Aside from a new, slicked-back haircut, your little brother looks the same today as he did back in eighteen-sixty-four. The perpetual seventeen-year-old inherited his thick brows and strong jaw from your father, while the soft brown color of his hair comes from your mother.

A small smile accompanies the warmth in his green eyes. “Hello Sissy.”

You hurry to him, throwing your arms around his shoulders. “Stefan!” Your voice is bright and warm as sunshine. Until his arms return the embrace, squeezing as hard as his diet allows, you hadn’t quite realized how very much you’d missed him.

After a moment more, you lean apart. Your hands remain on his shoulders as your appraising eye now turns to him. Little warmth emanates from the shoulders beneath your hands and his skin tone, while always light, is almost ghostly. “You look pale."

“I wanted to wait for you before finding something to eat.” He examines you in turn. “Looks as if Europe still agrees with you.”

Your smile grows. “I spent the season in Milan.”

His own small smirk makes its rare appearance. “Of course.”

You slap his shoulder lightly before finally letting go. “Don’t start.” You pluck at his shirt’s sleeve. “You didn’t pick this up at K-Mart.”

Stefan shrugs before extending a hand towards the sitting room. “How about a drink?” At your raised brow, he lifts both hands and clarifies, “The alcoholic kind.”

“I had so many complimentary beverages on the flight, I already feel like a lush,” you admit as he guides you to one of the couches.

“One more won’t make a difference, then.”

He’s halfway to the wet bar as you sit down, careful to smooth your skirt beneath your thighs as you sit and cross your ankles. “So now that I’m here, are you going to clear up the mystery of this girl you spoke of on the phone?”

His gaze flits upwards before falling back to the bottles. “Her name’s Elena. Elena Gilbert.”

Your smile falls. “Gilbert?”

Stefan nods as several ice cubes clink into a sterling silver shaker.

Disapproval rings in your voice as you say, “It’s a bad idea to mix with the founding families, Stefan.”

His hold pauses on the vermouth as he meets your stern look. “She has no idea about us.”

“For how long?” Seeing Stefan’s frown, you try to smooth your own away into something less judgmental. “Are you back in school, then?”

“Mystic Falls High.” He quickly unscrews a bottle of vodka and pours a generous amount into the shaker before mixing the two together with the ease of a professional bartender. After capping the bottle, he stabs an olive with a toothpick and sets it in the glass. Finally he picks up the drink and moves back to join you. “Junior year.”

“Junior?” You accept the martini and take a sip, enjoying the prohibition-era strength before asking, “How long do you plan to stay?”

Stefan shrugs and is about to answer when another familiar voice interrupts. “Oh, he’s going all the way to graduation.” You twist around to look over the back of the couch and find Damon in the doorway, arms crossed and leaning into his shoulder. His typical smirk is firmly in place, silver blue eyes partially hidden under messy bangs as he adds, “Aren’t ya, Stef?”

You’re careful to turn back around and set your drink down before standing. Seeing you move, Damon pushes off the doorway to hop down the step. His smirk entrenches itself further as he strides confidently forward to meet you halfway across the room.

Your smile stays exactly in place, even as you pluck the toothpick from your drink and bring it down into your older brother’s neck.

His shock allows you the chance to grab his arm and whip him around and across the room. Damon hits hard, shaking the wall, but you're careful to aim for a stud. The worst of the damage is a few fallen pictures. You hurry over and push him back up by the throat. Grabbing the toothpick, you rotate it around, eliciting a grunt from Damon.

Anger sharpens his glare. “Hello to you too, Sis,” he snarks through a grimace before grabbing your wrist.

You glare back, unimpressed by the manic widening of his eyes. “Do you have any idea how hard it’s going to be to find original glass to put into the attic window?”

Damon’s eyes narrow. “Hey,” he protests, starting to overpower you and pull your hand, and the toothpick, out with a wince. “I’m the one who went flying through the damn thing.” As soon the pick is free, he’s tightening his grip to a painful degree. Stubborn, you grit your teeth and hold on. “So if you’re going to stab someone for roughhousing, stab him!”

He shoves you as he finishes, so hard you’re now the one to go flying across the room and into the opposite wall.

You brace yourself, readying for Damon to follow up.

But your older brother merely stretches his neck side to side, wincing slightly as he pulls against the still healing wound before the flesh finishes fusing together. Expelling a disgusted breath, he lifts the toothpick and turns it over, studying it. He meets your angry stare. “As long as we’re worrying over the antiques, how about blood stains on the carpet? Hm?”

“Rugs are easy to find.” You straighten away from the wall and fold your arms. “And you’ve barely bled.”

Damon scoffs before wagging the pick at you. “I like this rug.”

Your lip curls. “And I like my baby brother. Don’t act as if you had nothing to do with the window, Damon.”

“I didn’t say I had nothing to do with it, just that I was the one shoved through it.” He tries using puppy eyes on you. It doesn’t work. “I’m the victim here.”

Stefan huffs out an incredulous breath before folding his arms, too. “You provoked me on purpose.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you haven’t learned a single smidge of self-control in over a hundred and sixty years,” Damon snarks.

“That’s rich coming from you,” you say.

Damon throws his hands out to the side. “Yes, yes. Perfect Sissy with her impeccable manners and demure behavior.” His eyes widen as he drawls, “Except for the torture, anyway.” His smirk is sharp and pointed. “So good to see you again, sis. Now, much as I hate to cut this happy little reunion short, I have a shirt to change and a date to meet.”

“A date?” Stefan asks, brows dropping.

Damon’s grin is all teeth. “What? You think you’re the only one allowed to find love in this town?”

“Love,” Stefan remarks, deadpan.

Damon, already striding across the room back to the open doorway, holds up a hand with fingers twined. “Fingers crossed.”

You and Stefan watch him disappear and listen until he reaches his room in the western wing of the house. Stefan turns to you and points towards the front door. You agree to follow with a nod.

You slide your sunglasses back down onto your nose as the two of you enter the sunshine. Silence reigns between you as you take off down the long drive towards the woods surrounding the property.

It isn’t until you’re near the tree line that Stefan speaks. “He isn’t lying. I did push him through the window.”

But you know both of your brothers. “What did he say?”

Stefan presses his lips together into a thin frown. “He threatened Elena.”

“The girl you’re enamored with.” When he doesn’t deny it, you stop him by grabbing his arm. “What’s so special about her that you’re willing to put up with Damon’s antics?”

Stefan meets your questioning gaze, expression serious. “Back in March, Elena and her parents were crossing Wickery Bridge late in the evening. It had rained earlier that day and the streets were still wet. Her father must have tried to break suddenly. The SUV slid through the railing and into the river.” Your brows press together at the grim description of the accident. “Elena and her mother were unconscious when I reached them. I meant to save her father, but he pointed me to Elena.” His brows furrow. “By the time I got her onshore and went back for her parents, it was too late.”

Your first thought is of Stefan’s unhealthy habit of self-flagellation. “That’s not your fault, Stefan.”

He surprises you as he says, “I know.” You aren’t sure if you believe him, but you let the matter drop as he continues. “I watched her over the summer.”

“While she’s grieving?”

Stefan nods. “At first I wanted to make sure she was coping. But the more I saw—the way she’s fought through everything—” he leaves off with a shrug.

Sounds a little odd to you, but Stefan always did have a fixation with would-be damsels that put on a brave face. It was part of what sealed your fates back in eighteen-sixty-four. You privately think it has to do with your mother’s death—he was so young at the time, barely ten—but keep such suspicions to yourself.

“Damon has obviously picked up on your interest.”

Stefan nods again. “And he’s using her to punish me.”

“Well,” you sigh, leaning against one of the large poplars that line the manor’s grounds. “I’m not sure what I can do, Stefan. It’s not as if he listens to me.”

“Help me protect her.” Stefan pleads with his unfairly earnest eyes. “It’s my fault she’s in danger.” A familiar tinge of guilt tints the words.

You muster a smile. “Of course, Stefan.” You grab your upper arms and loose a long, anxious breath. “I’m just not sure how much help I’ll be.”

“I can’t drink human blood. You can.”

“Damon’s still stronger.” All things being equal age wise, Damon edges you out on pure strength. You're a tiny bit faster, but not so much to even the playing field.

“You have more of a chance against him than I do.” Stefan’s hand finds its way to your shoulder. He looks at you with earnest gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you.”

Your smile is a bit easier. “Of course.” You step away from the tree and begin to head back to the house. “What’s this date Damon’s talking about?”

“No idea. But it can’t be anything good.” Stefan’s voice is grim.

As you and Stefan stroll back up the driveway, you approach your coup. The white Maserati gleams like a pearl under Virginia’s clear sky. Stefan steps over and studies her lines. “Little flashy for Mystic Falls.”

“And the Porsche isn’t?” You rejoin.

Stefan shrugs. “The engine’s not turning.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. “You’re running everywhere?”

“For now,” he admits.

“Stefan. What if someone sees?” Disapproval flattens your tone. When Stefan’s mouth thins, you force your voice to lighten. “I’ll give you a ride to school.”

Stefan’s small smile reappears as he nods. He glances at you, a thoughtful lilt to his brows. “I could use a lift tonight. If you know which side of the road to drive on.”

You knock your shoulder into his arm with a playful scowl. “I’ll manage. Where to?”

“Town square. The comet is back. The town’s throwing a small festival for it.”

“How fun.” The sarcasm thickens your words into a near proper drawl.

Stefan slips his hands into his jeans. “Elena will be there.”

“Ah.” You both reach the porch. Stefan leans over to open the door, allowing you to slip in ahead of him.

Inside, Damon bounds down the staircase, threading an arm through his leather jacket before settling it on his shoulders. His eyes glint as they catch yours. “Don’t wait up,” he smirks.

You and Stefan frown as he slips between you both to disappear out into the sunshine. A moment later, the low rumble of Damon’s convertible eases out of the garage.

You both exchange a concerned look. Since there isn’t anything you can do to stop Damon, you and Stefan return to the sitting room. But the question of what your volatile older brother is up to hangs like a cloud over the rest of your visit.


End file.
